At this point, discordantly, the “Hail Mary” choir was met by the circus band. Father Alfonso and Father Octavio had insisted that the circus band remain outside the Templo de la Compañía de Jesús, but La Maravilla’s brass-and-drum version of “Streets of Laredo” was difficult to suppress; their moribund and dirgelike distortion of the cowboy’s lament was loud enough for Lupe herself to have heard it.
The music-school children’s voices, straining to make their “Ave Maria” heard, were no match for the uproarious blare and percussion of the circus band. You could hear the piteous lamenting of La Maravilla’s “Streets of Laredo” in the zócalo. Flor’s friends — those prostitutes at work in the Hotel Somega — said the cowboy’s histrionic death song reached them as far away from the Jesuit temple as Zaragoza Street.
“Perhaps the sprinkling of the ashes will be simpler,” Brother Pepe said hopefully to Juan Diego, as they were leaving Lupe’s service — the unholy hocus-pocus, the flat-out mumbo jumbo of a Catholic kind, which was exactly what Lupe had wanted.
“Yes — more spiritual, perhaps,” Edward Bonshaw had chimed in.
He’d not at first understood the English translation of Hijas del Calvario, which indeed did mean “Daughters of Calvary,” though in the pocket dictionary Señor Eduardo consulted, the Iowan seized upon the informal meaning of Calvario or Calvary, which could mean “a series of disasters.”
Edward Bonshaw, whose life would be a series of disasters, had mistakenly imagined that the nuns who wept for hire were called “Daughters of a Series of Disasters.” Given the lives of those orphans left at Lost Children, and given the awful circumstances of Lupe’s death — well, one can appreciate the parrot man’s misunderstanding of the Hijas del Calvario.
And one could sympathize with Flor — her appreciation of the parrot man was wearing a little thin. Not to put too fine a point on it, but Flor had been waiting for Edward Bonshaw to shit or get off the pot. Upon Señor Eduardo’s confusing the Daughters of Calvary with an order of nuns dedicated to a series of disasters — well, Flor had just rolled her eyes.
When, if ever, would Edward Bonshaw find the balls to confess his love for her to the two old priests?
“The main thing is tolerance, right?” Señor Eduardo was saying, as they were leaving the Temple of the Society of Jesus; they passed the portrait of Saint Ignatius, who was ignoring them but looking to Heaven for guidance. Pajama Man was splashing his face in the fountain of holy water, and Soledad and the young-women acrobats bowed their heads there as Juan Diego limped by.
Paco and Beer Belly were standing outside the temple, where the brass-and-drum bombardment of the circus band was loudest.
“¡Qué triste!” Beer Belly shouted, when he saw Juan Diego.
“Sí, sí, Lupe’s brother — how sad, how sad,” Paco repeated, giving Juan Diego a hug.
Now, amid the dirgelike din of “Streets of Laredo,” was not the time for Señor Eduardo to confess his love for Flor to Father Alfonso and Father Octavio — whether or not the Iowan would ever find the balls for such a formidable confession.
As Dolores had said to Juan Diego, when The Wonder herself was talking him down from the top of the main tent: “I’m sure you’re going to have the balls for lots of other stuff.” But when, and what other stuff? Juan Diego was wondering, while the circus band played on and on — it seemed the dirge would never end.
The way “Streets of Laredo” was reverberating, the corner of las calles de Trujano y Flores Magón was shaking. Rivera might have felt it was safe to shout; the dump boss may have thought no one would hear him. He was wrong — not even the brass-and-drum version of the cowboy’s lament could conceal what Rivera shouted.
The dump boss had turned to face the entrance to the Jesuit temple, off Flores Magón; he’d shaken his fist in the direction of the Mary Monster — he was so angry. “We’ll be back, with more ashes for you!” el jefe had shouted.
“You mean the sprinkling, I assume,” Brother Pepe said to the dump boss, as if Pepe were speaking conspiratorially.
“Ah, yes — the sprinkling,” Dr. Vargas joined in. “Be sure you tell me when that’s happening — I don’t want to miss it,” he told Rivera.
“There’s stuff to burn — decisions to be made,” the dump boss mumbled.
“And we don’t want too many ashes — just the right amount this time,” Juan Diego added.
“And only at the Virgin Mary’s feet!” the parrot man reminded them.
“Sí, sí—these things take time,” el jefe cautioned them.
But not always in dreams — sometimes dreams go fast. Time can be compressed in dreams.
• • •
IN REAL LIFE, IT took a few days for Dolores to show up at Cruz Roja, presenting Vargas, as she did, with her fatal peritoneal infection. (In his dream, Juan Diego would skip that part.)
In real life, el hombre papagayo — the dear parrot man — would take a few days to find the balls to say what he had to say to Father Alfonso and Father Octavio, and Juan Diego would discover that he did have the balls for “lots of other stuff,” as Dolores had tried to assure him when he just froze at eighty feet. (In his dream, of course, Juan Diego would skip how many days it took him and the Iowan to discover their balls.)
And, in real life, Brother Pepe spent a couple of days doing the necessary research: the rules regarding legal guardianship, pertaining (in particular) to orphans; the role the Church could play, and had played, in appointing or recommending legal guardians for kids in the care of Lost Children. Pepe had a good head for this kind of paperwork; constructing Jesuitical arguments from history was a procedure he understood well.
It was unremarkable, in Pepe’s opinion, how often Father Alfonso and Father Octavio were on record for saying, “We are a Church of rules”; yet Pepe discovered that the two old priests were not once on record for saying they could or would bend the rules. What was remarkable was how frequently Father Alfonso and Father Octavio had bent the rules — some orphans weren’t very adoptable; not every potential guardian was indisputably suitable. And, not surprisingly, Pepe’s precisionist preparation and presentation regarding why Edward Bonshaw and Flor were (in Juan Diego’s difficult case) the dump reader’s most suitable guardians imaginable — well, you can understand why these academic disputations weren’t dream material. (When it came to dreaming, Juan Diego would skip Pepe’s Jesuitical arguments, too.)
Last but not least, in real life, it would take a few days for Rivera and Juan Diego to sort out the burning business — not only what went into the fire at the basurero, but how long to let it burn and how many ashes to take out. This time, the container for the ashes would be small — not a coffee can but just a coffee cup. It was a cup Lupe had liked for her hot chocolate; she’d left it in the shack in Guerrero, where el jefe had kept it for her.
There was, importantly, a second part to Lupe’s last requests — the sprinkling-of-the-ashes part — but the preparation of those interesting ashes would also be absent from Juan Diego’s dream. (Dreams not only can go fast; they can be very selective.)
His first night at El Escondrijo, Juan Diego got up to pee — he wouldn’t remember what happened, because he was still dreaming. He sat down to pee; he could pee more quietly sitting down, and he didn’t want to wake up Dorothy, but there was a second reason for his sitting down. He’d seen his cell phone — it was on the countertop next to the toilet.